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The following story is meant for a mature audience. If you are under the allowable age wherever you live then you are not allowed to read this. If you are looking for a 'hot' story with lots of sex, don't bother to read any further. This story was designed to express a favorite fantasy of mine about how a self centered man is taught to appreciate the softer side of his personality. Unwillingly forced into cross dressing by his wife he....

 

Man Maid

by Gennie TV

miss_gennie@myway.com

 

Part 1 ----

I woke up that morning after having another of those knock down drag out fights with the wife. I was feeling a bit odd but, believing it was just a hangover, I started to get out of bed and realized...

*******

The fight was really about nothing important. All I said was that since she has nothing else to do during the day (a dangerous statement in itself) the least she could do is wear a dress for me now and then. Maybe with that nice lacy corset I bought her for Valentine's Day last year. She still hasn't even tried it on, "too lacy" she said. I ask you how could anything so feminine be "too lacy"? She claimed I should know by now that she doesn't like the kinds of skirts and dresses I want her to wear. She wanted to know why I couldn't wear a dress for her since they were so sexy and comfortable. She argued that the summer would be a great time for me to show off my 'nice ass' in a pretty skirt.

"Since you don't have anything else to do for the summer, no papers to grade, no lessons to plan, you could get into a dress and panties until school starts again. You can even sleep in that nice lacy corset you love so much." Don't you just hate it when they use your own words against you?

I laughed at her. "Me!? In a dress? Ha! Get real, I'm a man."

She just smiled (not a good sign) and purred: "But, DEAR, you are so-o-o-o fond of tight skirts and dresses, high heels, and lacy corsets. You should wear them now while you have the time. It's OK dear, you don't have to feel inferior just because you're a man, and it's OK for men to look good too."

Of course I came back with the famous, but lame line: "I'm not a woman, and men don't wear dresses. And besides, even if I wanted to we don't have any dresses, corsets, or high heels in my size." she just grinned, as if she had just won the lottery or something.

"OK, Mr. Macho, no problem. Here have another beer." Her final words before going off to bed, alone.

I should have caught on that something was up, but I was so upset I gulped down the beer and went to bed. Another chilly night, sleeping back to back, I fell immediately into a deep, sound sleep, my lovely wife, apparently had not.

*****

... that there was something wrong with my chest. I was still groggy but, it felt as if some heavy weight had been attached to it. I could have sworn that my chest moved after I did, almost like slow motion. As my mind worked through the fog I became aware of the fact that while I was asleep my wife had somehow attached a pair of the biggest tits I had ever seen onto MY chest. They looked real; they felt real, hell they even bounced when I moved. They were HUGE, and those nipples... (So, OK maybe they weren't THAT big but, when they are suddenly attached to a normally flat male chest they sure look big.)

She told me later they were only D she wanted larger but they were not in stock, thank the Supreme Being for small (D small?) blessings. I looked around for my wife but she was nowhere to be seen. I tugged on the monstrosities on my chest, felt pain, decided to leave them alone, and headed off to the bathroom to take care of business. When I pulled down my silk boxers (What? Lots of men wear silk underwear) I got my next shock. She had actually attached a chastity device to my cock and balls! It looked to be made of heavy leather covered in pink satin, with straps between my legs attached to a band around my waist; I could feel small padlocks under the satin on the front panel. It was designed to allow me to expel both solid and liquid wastes without removal, but would not allow an erection, and I would have to sit to pee! How could I have slept so soundly that she could have done this to me? Was I that drunk last night?

I did what was necessary, feeling very humiliated at having to sit, and headed back into the bedroom. I went to my dresser to get some fresh boxers and the drawer was empty! Empty except for a note from the wife that is in it she explained that the chastity was locked on and the key was with her. That the breasts would eventually fall off when the adhesive bond broke down, shouldn't take more than a week or so but, if I cooperated she might share the adhesive solvent sooner. Of course, I could try to pull them off but would likely take some skin with them (I could imagine her giggling knowing that I would have already tried that). Her note went on to say that since I was now a woman, (dear you have tits and have to sit to pee) and since, it is so easy to wear a corset, dress, stockings and heels (my words coming back to haunt me again) I would now have a chance to see what it was like first hand. She explained that all of my "male" clothes were in storage at our u-store-it locker on the other side of town. I was instructed to dress in the "uniform" I would find in the closet. And that when I finally got myself dressed (finally? Yes dear, you will find getting dressed today a bit more of a challenge than your normal jeans and T-shirt) I should clean the house and do the laundry. Do as instructed and she might, might, release the chastity later that nite.... maybe.

My mind was racing, I was feeling dizzy. Me in a dress, unthinkable! Dresses are for women! How could she even consider doing such a thing to me? Why should I suffer just because she doesn't "feel comfortable wearing a dress"? She's a woman, and women should wear dresses to look good for their men.

Her words from our argument began to echo in my mind. "Dear, as I've said before. I don't wear 'your kind' of dresses or skirts because they are so restrictive. While wearing one you have to be constantly aware of how you bend and sit. Getting in and out of a car with any degree of modesty, especially in those short tight skirts you want me to wear, is nearly impossible. If I wear a longer skirt, you insist that it be 'nice and tight', so that it shows off my 'nice ass'. Do you have any idea at all what it's like to wear a long tight skirt? What it feels like to have people staring at you as you attempt to walk but the best you can manage is kind of a mincing two-step? Of course you don't, if you did you would understand and stop insisting."

"You have no concept of what it's like to even try to do simple things like; get into a car; go up or down stairs; walk up or down a hill; why, even using the toilet is an adventure in those tight skirts you are so fond of. Simple everyday tasks become difficult, cumbersome chores, in a short tight skirt and are nearly impossible in a long one. And then to top it off you want me to wear high heels with those bondage skirts! Get real! Have you ever tried to even stand in a pair of high heels? Even short ones? Oh no, of course you haven't. High heels are for women, so that they can look good for their men. Isn't that what you are so fond of saying? It's not the inconvenience of the dresses once in a while that bothers me so much, it's that damned attitude you have toward women."

I'm a man damn it! She can't do this to me. Its one thing for her to tease me about my hair (it's only a few inches past my shoulders for goodness sake) lots of men have long hair. And she even encouraged me to let it grow out. So what? And my pierced ears, that was just a college lark, my girlfriend at the time dared me to be a little wild, teased me that I didn't have guts enough to get my ears pierced. So what? Lots of men have pierced ears. That's no reason to wear a dress. I'm a man! I'm all man! I'll simply refuse, I'll show her!

Feeling better I thought I should at least read the rest of her note: "Knowing you as I do, you have just gone through a tantrum and decided that you will not dress as I have instructed, no matter what. You are feeling very "manly" and full of yourself right now.

So answer me this: Since you have no "male" clothes, don't bother with the hamper I got those too, beautiful tits, and what looks like satin panties attached to your waist, how are you going to get out of the house? Call one of your buddies to bring you clothes so that he can get close enough to see the pictures I have posted outside on the garage door? They are really quite lovely, you look so content with one hand full of your own breast and the other on your crotch, no one would ever believe you were unaware of your situation. (Better hope I get home soon and take them down hunh?) No, my dear sissy husband, you will not risk allowing anyone to see you as you currently are. Even if you should decide to try and wait until the adhesive breaks down on your pretty new breasts, you'll never get that "panty" off without the key, at least not without hurting your precious little jewels. You are stuck love. Go to the closet now. You will find further instructions there."

I thought I would faint. I was trapped and I knew it. I knew that if I went along with her plan that eventually she would relent and give me back my clothes however, in the meantime I had little choice but to obey. So it was with trembling hands and Jell-O-like knees I opened the closet door and started my new life. True to her word all of my clothes were gone, the only pants available were my wife's and they would never fit me. She had even removed her sweats and T-shirts, my only other hope. Looking at my side of the closet revealed a zippered garment bag that I had seen before. It had appeared in the closet, on her side, about a week before school ended. When I asked her about it she said that she needed something to keep her evening gowns in. It didn't occur to me at the time that she had not worn an evening gown in years. (I had just realized that she must have been planning my transformation for some time, and that last night's argument was simply her way of setting me up.) On the floor below the garment bag was a large box with "start here" stenciled across the top. With trembling hands and jiggling tits I took the box to the bed to examine its contents. What a shock. I couldn't help being impressed with what she had chosen for me to wear. It was beautiful, but as I was to learn beauty is only skin deep. That beautiful lingerie would soon encase me like an unyielding prison.

Inside the box, lying on top and labeled number one was a panty-girdle-like thingy that looked way too small for me and was very heavily padded on the rump and hips. To give me a proper rump the note said. Next, labeled number two, were some shimmery flesh colored pantyhose. These had a note that they were designed to cover even the heaviest leg hair, and that by the end of the day I would be begging her to help me shave my legs. (Ha, like I would ever beg her to help me shave my legs.) Labeled number three was the most beautiful corset. It was pastel lavender, made from silky satin, frothing with lace, the bra cups were under-wired and huge, it had a zippered front, six lacy garters, and what looked to be very stiff stays. Number four was a pair of sheer white hose with lace tops, they were so fine and silky it was almost as if I was holding air in my hands. Further down in the box I came upon label five, a wonderfully silky, full slip, made of satin it flowed though my hands like water when I picked it up. It matched the corset exactly with wonderful little lace insets at the bodice, and a ring of lace around the bottom. This was all so beautiful, so soft, so silky, why would any woman want to refuse to wear such finery, I couldn't enjoy wearing any of this of course because I was a man. At least that's what I kept telling myself. The final item in the box almost floored me, a pair of panties, not ordinary panties that would be too easy. These panties were of the same color as the corset & slip, and were made of satin and lace, lots and lots of lace, rows and rows of lace across the butt. The note said that they were special sissy panties, for her special sissy.

With the box emptied and it contents laid out in front of me, I took a deep breath and began. The fanny panty surprised me in that it was very stretchy and I only had to wiggle a little to get it on. I don't know what the padding was made of but must have been a gel of some kind because now my butt jiggled almost as much as my tits, what an experience, instant T & A. The pantyhose was another story, I eventually remembered that my wife had always gathered the leg together in her hand and then put her foot in and pulled them up from the toe to the hip. They felt very sensuous sliding up my legs the room light reflecting off of them making them shimmer. I tried to get hard but the chastity prevented that quite effectively. My legs felt as though they were encased in silk stretch bandages, I could not move without the hose moving with me.

What can I say about that corset? My corset, so soft & silky, it felt so light, I would never have thought that anything so beautiful could be so difficult. After what seemed like hours, I was finally able to contort myself enough to hold my breath, get the zipper together and pulled up, and get its cups around my breasts and its straps over my shoulders, all at the same time. When I finally finished with the zipper it was as though a great weight had been lifted from my chest, finally those humongous orbs were under control. My relief was short lived however, for as soon as I tried to take a deep breath and relax my stomach and back I found that beauty could indeed be crushing. I couldn't take a deep breath, I couldn't relax my belly, and I could barely bend my back. Getting the stockings on was definitely not easy, but not too bad they felt so wondrously sensuous going on but, those back garter tabs were sheer hell. I was so worried that I would rip the delicate fabric, and I had no desire to find out how my wife would handle that. Overall the slip was definitely the easiest part. I found that raising my hands over my head posed yet another challenge in that ever restrictive corset and I again feared that I would rip my delicate lace stockings the garters pulled so tight. The slip felt so slinky sliding down across my nylon clad body, landing with its lace hem just above my knees. It was as if I had put my finger into a light socket I had so many tingles of electricity running through my body. Oh it was so wonderful. I knew deep in my mind that I would want to wear these clothes again, but my manly self could not yet face that reality. Looking in the mirror

I was female from the neck down of that there was no doubt. I slowly slid my panties up my nylon clad legs, my hands shaking, my body quaking, I had never felt such intense sensations from clothes before. The sight of me with my massive chest jutting out, lifting my slip and pulling my panties into place I almost fainted from overload. My wife was right wearing a corset was uncomfortable, but the body shaping and satin caress could almost make anyone forget the severe constriction, almost. And if nothing else it made a great back brace. It took me some time to break the spell I had come under and bring myself back to my contrite attitude. "I'm a man damn it! I DO NOT! I WILL NOT! Enjoy wearing WOMEN'S' clothes! I'm only putting these things on long enough to figure out how to get what I need from my wife."

Walking from the bed to the closet was almost more than I could handle. Of course I blamed my dizziness on the corset and the fact that it would not allow me to take a proper breath. I could not admit to myself that the clothes I was wearing were bringing back long suppressed desires. Desires that as a child I had been forced to repress.

****

I wanted to know what it would be like to dress in my sisters' silky nylon under things. "Why should they be allowed to wear such pretty colors and soft fabrics, when all I was allowed to wear were plain white BVD's and pants? It's just not fair I want to be able to wear pretty things too!" I had thought to myself all those years ago.

Had I simply thought, instead of acting on those thoughts, I would not have been caught in my older sister's bra and garter panties with a pair of her sheerest nylons, and my younger sister's dress. It was a sun dress made of light cotton with a flaring skirt and fitted bodice it stopped about three inches above my knees, and would bounce back against my thighs when ever I moved. I must have spent hours just twirling around, watching the dress spread out and then fall back against my young nyloned legs. The bra and top of the dress holding tight against my young chest, a constant reminder of the forbidden fabrics encasing my young body the panties rubbing against my groin and butt I felt like someone had plugged me into a light socket and turned on the power, I was too young to understand what that feeling meant, but wearing those clothes felt, well, right somehow.

Then one fateful day I was so engrossed in those new and unique feelings that I did not hear my sisters come home. They watched me for several minutes before they could no longer contain themselves and broke into hysterical laughter. I was so embarrassed. All I wanted was to find a hole to crawl into and pull in behind me. They started making fun of their cute little sissy brother. They said they thought I was cute and should stay dressed as I was to show our parents, but my embarrassment was so great I ran to my room and changed back into my BVD's and jeans, thankful that it was only my sisters that had seen me.

That night at dinner my sisters would start to giggle every time they looked in my direction, which of course started my dad wondering what was going on. So they told him, since they saw nothing wrong with me wearing a dress, they did not think that his reaction would be any different than theirs. I thought my dad was going to have a stroke right there at the dinner table. He made it very clear that men wore pants and that only women and perverts wore dresses. He screamed at my mother for allowing such an awful thing to happen in his house and set about training me to be a "man". After that incident he never missed an opportunity to explain to me how women were put on Earth to please their men; to cook and clean and dress pretty so that they could keep their men happy. I now know that out of fear of my father's wrath and disapproval I suppressed that day and those heavenly feelings, suppressed and not thought about, but not completely forgotten.

*******

All I could do as I walked to the closet was wonder why I felt so good. I could not understand why the sound of my nylons rubbing against each other caused images of women with tight sweaters, short skirts, high heels and MY face to form in my mind. Nor, why I would get a shiver up my spine each time my nylon encased legs came in contact with my slip. I was still trying to convince myself that I was a man, all man, and men do not wear dresses. Men do not enjoy the sensations caused by satin rubbing on satin while encasing their bodies. I had to pause at the closet to catch my breath before I could get to the garment bag and see what further humiliation my wife had planned for me.

With trembling hands and closed eyes I pulled down the zipper on the garment bag that held my uniform. I had no idea what to expect, but I felt that if I could just keep my eyes closed long enough the bag would be empty.

I took as deep a breath as my satin prison would allow, and opened my eyes.

My "uniform" consisted of: A high neck, long sleeve, cream colored silk blouse with lots of ruffles and very loose fitting sleeves with lace trimmed cuffs; a knee length black satin pencil skirt; a barrette with a huge white satin bow with ribbons for my hair, and pair of black patent leather pumps, with 3" heels. I felt a sharp pain in my groin as my entrapped manhood once again attempted to rise to the occasion. There were no instructions from wife with my uniform, so I decided that it would be best to start with the blouse and then move on to the skirt.

I removed the blouse from the hanger and realized that all those shiny little pearl buttons ran up the back of the blouse. I was so absorbed with the slippery feeling of the silk and the contortions needed to button my blouse I barely noticed how it seemed to make my newfound breasts stand out even further from my chest. After what seemed an eternity, with my shoulders sore from being bent in such unnatural positions, I finally got the last button buttoned. (Why did she have to choose a top that buttoned in back? One with a zipper in the back at least would have been much easier to handle than those itsy back buttons.) After all that exertion I felt I had earned myself a break and decided to walk over and see what a real man looked like in a blouse and slip. I gasped the blouse! It was not only driving me wild rubbing against my slip and corset; it not only made me feel like I had a '71 Cadillac attached to my chest; it was almost transparent! There was no doubt what color my slip was underneath, the lovely lavender and all the pretty lace showed through in all its glory. So I promptly did what any red blooded American male would do under these circumstances. I fainted.

I don't know how long I was out, could have been minutes, and could have been hours, time was totally out of sync for me at that point. Working my way back onto my feet was an experience in itself. Between the corset not allowing me to bend and my stockinged knees sliding against my slip I almost wanted to just stay on my knees and crawl back to the bed to get my skirt. I felt so weak and humiliated by this time. My wife had not only made me look like a woman, now I even fainted like one. What next?

I was able to get the skirt on without further incident even though the button and zipper were also in the back. Doesn't anything besides that damn corset fasten in front? Wow, was that skirt tight. With my padded ass and nyloned legs though, I thought I looked great in that skirt. I didn't yet realize how hard my beautiful new outfit would be to move in because with what little thought I had left I had positioned the shoes so that I was able to step right into them. (Why did I do that? That's not like me. Was I thinking like a woman now?) The restriction of the skirt actually kept me from falling over when I first stood in those shoes. A few practice steps informed me that, restrictive as the corset and skirt were, walking in heels had its own restrictions. After a few minutes of practice however, I learned to take steps even shorter than what the skirt would allow, that way each step would place one foot directly in front of the other, thereby allowing me to have my toes land before my heels. I found that in this way I seemed to have the best balance and most graceful stride. (If I was going to wear these clothes I wanted to look good in them.) I was very self conscious however, of the fact that walking in such a way also made my ass and hips sway in a very feminine way. But I could find no alternative. I think an ape dressed in that outfit, with those shoes, would have had to have had a sexy sway to his walk. I couldn't help it. Honest. At least I would be able to mince around the house without breaking an ankle. I hoped. My next lesson came when I attempted to sit at my wife's vanity table. Being the "man" that I was I was accustomed to a rather ungracious plopping down motion when getting into a chair, spreading my legs for balance and comfort.

This time however, not only did I not plop, I didn't even sit! I found that in order to sit in a tight skirt required a grace and balance unknown in the normal male world. Keeping my back straight (what choice did I have?) and my knees and ankles together (yeah, like I had any choice again) I folded at the hip and carefully lowered myself onto the chair where, just like a proper lady I sat with my back straight and knees together. When I looked into the mirror I was appalled at the image that greeted me. From the neck down was a beautifully shaped, well endowed, heavenly dressed woman. From the image presented to my eyes there was no doubt that the body I was admiring, (who wouldn't, it reminded me of Mae West) was 100% pure human female. From the neck up however was the exact opposite. Perched upon that heavenly shaped (even if man maid) body, was a face that could stop a train. Scruffy beard, untrimmed mustache, bushy eyebrows, and soft blue eyes (so I have nice eyes, what can I say?) formed into an expression of complete horror. I had never thought of myself as ugly before, and I really am not, but to have that furry face attached to that body was just too much. I had to do something with that face! Of course I rationalized my decision as a need to do things properly, I could hear my father's words ring in my mind: "Son, if you are going to do something, then do it right or don't do it at all." Well my wife said she had always wondered what I looked like without a mustache, I guess this would be her chance to find out. So with my mind made up, I planted my feet and ever so graciously (well it felt like I had some grace) keeping my knees together arose from the chair and minced into the bathroom. A trip that for my normal stride would have been maybe seven or eight steps now seemed to take hundreds.

The sight of my furry face in the medicine cabinet mirror only strengthened my resolve. As I watched my hand reaching up to open the cabinet I thought how much better, more feminine, it would look with a proper manicure. I heard myself saying out loud, "What a strange thought, men shouldn't have such thoughts. Stop it now!" I sounded weak and unsure even to myself. I continued pulling the door open, I started to reach for my shaving gear, but it wasn't there! In its place was a bright pink, make-up bag with an envelope dressed to "gennie" attached to it. I almost fainted again. Time came to a halt, long suppressed memories returned in a rush. Feelings so long repressed, so long denied, engulfed me in a tsunami of released emotion. How could she know? Was that why she was doing this to me? To help my sisters get even with me for the way I treated them after that awful day? It wasn't my fault, my fear of and respect for my father made me assume that macho persona. He made me believe that my sisters should be treated as less than equals because they were just weak females. I loved my sisters, I would never have done anything to hurt either of them had I known.

With my heart pounding in my ears, and my mind numbed, I reached out with trembling hands and carefully removed the letter from the make-up bag. "gennie" was the name my sisters had used to help humiliate me all those years before. It was a derivation of my middle name of Gene, they thought that Jean was too strong a name for such a sissy boy, and Gene was a man's name, so they agreed on gennie. They made sure I understood that the first letter was lower case to reflect my status as less than a real woman. I just stood there for what seemed an eternity, holding that letter, thoughts of an ended marriage running through my head. I was convincing myself that Debbie (my wife) was doing this to me to teach the pervert (that's me, hey I was not rational at the time, I was still stuck in my father's imposed mind-set) one last lesson before divorcing him. What other reaction could she possibly have had? I finally fumbled the envelope open, convinced by now that I knew what it would say, and withdrew my wife's note to "gennie".

My eyes were tearing and my hands were shaking so much I had to sit down and brace my arms on the bathroom vanity before I could even attempt to see what she had written. What a sight I must have been, a flowingly curvaceous female form, awkwardly attempting to fold herself into a sitting position, with masculine hands clutching a piece of paper as if it were gold, topped off by a scruffy male face. It took some time but I was finally able to focus enough to read Debbie's letter to gennie:

"Dear gennie,

You are undoubtedly wondering why I would do what I have to you. By this time you have convinced yourself that I am out for revenge; that this is my way of getting even with you; that I'm trying to humiliate you before I throw you out on your ear; that I am working with your sisters so that they can also get their revenge on you. Well dear in some ways you are absolutely correct. You have been, on frequent occasions, a... ahhh.... oh what can I say; An inconsiderate ass: A chauvinistic pig: Or perhaps a petulant little, over pampered, princess? Yes, that's it you've acted like a spoiled little princess. Always whining and complaining until you get your way. Just like a 3 year old, a three year old little girl. Well now my spoiled little sissy princess of a husband gets to not only act, but dress the part s/he fits so well. Yes, I have talked with your sisters; they told me all about how much you loved dressing in their clothes. How they named you gennie, and how sweet you were to them during the time you were dressing in their clothes. Yes, dear they knew of your experimentation with their clothes long before they confronted you. They disliked you borrowing their clothes but they liked how gracious, and humble you would become after each session. That's why they always left certain clothes out where you could find them easily. They also told me that your personality changed permanently for the worse, and your dressing adventures stopped after your father humiliated and belittled you for your harmless little adventures. Well dear as I told you last night, I am fed up with your attitude toward women, as are your sisters. We know why you act the way you do and feel that that is no excuse. We have put up with it long enough. It is time to put an end to it once and for all. We want the real you to emerge not the silly, nasty, arrogant, "manchild" that you have been acting like for far too long. We all believe the old adage about walking a mile in another's shoes before you can judge them. That is why my dear gennie, (better get used to that name, it's the only one you have until school starts, perhaps longer) you look as you do now, so that you can walk a mile, or two, or three in proper high heeled shoes. Having fun in your new clothes yet? Any trouble walking? Think you can do that mile yet? Aren't your new tities just to die for? Having trouble seeing your pretty new shoes when you look down? Don't you just love the way your chest gets there before you do? Be careful going through doors dear, you don't want to hurt your new self. Oh gennie, you'll be so happy to know that your sister Susan helped me get your new breasts and the surgical adhesive just for you. She was so excited to be able to be of help. Don't forget to thank her when you see her next. Anyway, by now you should have experienced several episodes of sexual arousal because of your pretty new clothes. Sorry about the chastity but it was necessary. Susan helped get that also. She says it's custom made and based on the Tolly Boy design, with a steel band between layers of rubber and leather around your waist, and a metal plate over your precious jewels. The padlocks are special tempered steel, attached so that the shank is covered by a metal button. It would take a surgical team with a cutting torch to get it off without the key, and I don't think you would want that would you? Yes dear before you ask it was very expensive, and took us almost a year to receive after ordering. But the result was well worth the wait and expense. Don't you think so gennie? We decided that the chastity was necessary for your own peace of mind. With it you will not have to worry so much about forgetting to sit when you pee, standing would be so un-gennie like. You don't have to worry about that unsightly bulge under your pretty skirts or dresses (pants are forbidden of course). And best of all it will help keep your panties from getting soiled from that all that nasty cum that would ooze out of your cute little clittie without it. Doesn't Susan come up with some of the sweetest ideas ever? Why I'll bet that by the end of the summer you will shudder at even just the thought of men's trousers, shirt & tie, adorning your body. You may not realize it yet gennie but you are a transvestite: A man who loves enmeshing himself in his feminine side; relishes the silky feel of satin and lace caressing her ah his body. No dear, being a transvestite has nothing to do with being gay, nor being as your father so hatefully put it, a pervert. It has to do with a desire, a need actually, to express a part of yourself that our society deems feminine, and not appropriate for men to feel or express. Donning the attire of the opposite sex is not necessarily an expression of sexual identity, but much rather an expression of your complete identity. By becoming gennie, you are able to express your self as a whole. Not "man" or "woman" but human. A combination of the traits that make all of us what we are and so few of us are willing to express or accept. Now you have an opportunity to experience that fulfillment. You will not have to feel guilty for wearing a dress, or painting your nails, ever again. You will not have to worry about what your family or wife thinks of you in a cute little mini-skirt. You will be allowed to express your feminine self and wallow in the depth of the release of emotions that gennie will allow you, all because you have no choice in the matter. No guilt, no regrets, no choice. What more could you ask? You gotta love it! After years of trying to get you to loosen up some on your "I wear the pants in this family" attitude I realized that you would never let yourself go enough to accept the "gennie" in you until you either exploded from repressed emotions, or were forced to face gennie and learn who you really are. Unbeknownst to you my dear little sissy husband, I've known your sister Karin, since High School. It was with her help that I snagged you. It was Karin that told me about gennie, and how your father treated you. She told me long before we were even married. I told her about my brother, (yes dear, Sharon was/is my brother not my sister) and how much better s/he has felt since s/he has been able to appear on the outside how s/he felt on the inside. Sharon is different than you though my love. Sharon was born with the mind and feelings of a female in the body of a male; she is a trans-sexual dear, something few people actually know about her. She was lucky, our parents understood, and accepted that their son was actually their daughter. They allowed him to start hormone therapy and live as Sharon starting on his 16th birthday, and he underwent SRS on his/her 19th birthday. That's why I know so much about the difference between a Transvestite (you) and a Trans-sexual (Sharon), I have had personal reasons to research the subject for years. It was Karin's idea to pretend that we barely knew each other. That way she reasoned, we could talk about you and you would never suspect. She really loves you and wants you to be happy as much as I do. That's why when all else failed we resorted to our current methods. I have watched stress added to stress without release build up in you, and it gets worse every day. gennie will help you to release that stress, allow you to become whole once again as you were all those years ago in your sisters' bedroom. So "gennie" inside the attached make-up bag you will find a pretty pink razor; feminine shave cream; a pair of tweezers taped to a pair of plastic templates to help you get just the right shape to your eyebrows; a pretty pink lipstick and matching nail polish; and of course a pair of nice dangly earrings for you to complete your look. Shave your face twice dear, we will take care of your arm pits and legs later. Karin will do your hair, make-up, and nails properly tomorrow. Get to work girl! I'll be home by 2:00. I Love you my little gennie, grant me my wish and be ready before I get home.

Kisses & Hugs,

Debbie

Hair, make-up, and nails tomorrow! That would mean that she expects me to go to Karin's salon! That can't be! No Debbie would never carry this little game of hers that far. She must mean that Karin will come here to the house tomorrow. Of course, that's what she means, Karin will come here tomorrow. Just as well it will give me chance to tell her what I think of a sister that shares such intrigues with a MAN's wife. And Susan too! How could they? Yep, all three of them are going to get a major piece of my mind! If I have any mind left by the time I see them that is.

Using the shave cream my wife had so thoughtfully supplied, I set about the task of removing the excess fur from my face. I was surprised that the shave cream felt so good, it didn't sting at all like the menthol stuff I was used to, a real man's shave cream, a little sting on your face in the morning helps to wake you up. This stuff smelled like the perfume counter at the local department store, but since it was all I had...

Tweezing my eyebrows hurt even more than I had expected. Using the self-adhesive templates my wife had so generously supplied, I pulled out each uncovered hair one at a time. I didn't realize how little would be left by the time I was done. My efforts left me with thin arched brows that any man ahh, I mean, woman would be proud of. My brows felt like someone had used hot little pokers all around my eyes. "How does Debbie put up with this ritual every week? It HURTS. Why if God had intended us to tweeze our eye brows s/he would have had us born with tweezers in our hands. But I'm a man. I can take it." Yeah right, my eyes would tear more with each plucked hair.

My first attempt at applying lipstick made me look more like Bozo than a human female. I learned quickly to be conservative, and apply in layers, removing the extra with a tissue. Licking my lips for the first time with lipstick on was a memorable experience. I could feel my lips but at the same time I couldn't, it was really strange. I found that in spite of myself I enjoyed the slight adhesion caused by the lipstick when I pressed my lips together and that sweet smell right under my nose that wouldn't go away. It amazed me how something as simple as some colored goo on my lips could be such a major reminder of my current situation. Were my sisters and wife correct? Could I possibly be a transvestite? I had to admit that the clothes and lipstick felt good, even if I wanted so badly for them not to.

My efforts at applying nail polish were only slightly less successful than my first attempts at applying lipstick. I learned quickly that if I wanted to wipe away excess polish I had to be quick. That stuff gets sticky real quick but takes forever to dry. I found that I could do a reasonable job of covering my mistakes with a tissue by using enough coats of polish to plaster the stuck on tissue piece to my nail under the polish. If only Debbie had left me with some nail polish remover, I would have done much better. "Just because a man does not usually polish his nails doesn't mean he can't, anything that a weak little woman can do a man should certainly be able to do even better. (Except of course having babies, but that doesn't count.)" I was still determined that I would not admit I had a feminine side.

I used the time it took my nails to dry to try and reflect on the events of my morning. My head was spinning so fast. So much had happened to me already, so much to adjust to, so much to digest, and it was barely 10am, more than 2 hours to get dressed and I still wasn't done. My skirt would not allow my knees to separate the way they wanted to. The corset kept me from any kind of slouch I had to stretch my neck to its limit in order to see my hands around my massive faux mammaries. I couldn't even slide down in the chair to give my butt some relief. I could sit with my back straight and knees together, or I could stand. I tried that too, found out that if I stood too long my ankles would start to wobble and my feet would hurt. The slippery, sliding feeling I kept getting from the lack of friction between my satin panties, slip and skirt, kept giving me the impression that I would slide right off of my chair. My encased manhood continued to cry for attention. Several times I reached for my crotch to offer myself some relief only to hit a wall of reality reminding me of my new station in life.

Was I going crazy? I was taught that men do not enjoy soft feminine clothing; that men are not to be caught dead wearing satin and/or lace. The idea of a man in a skirt should have been repulsive to me, only Women and perverts wear skirts, my father had pounded that message into me over and over, frequently physically with a switch from the tree in the back yard. Yet here I was, in a form fitting skirt, with tits that would make Loni Anderson jealous, sitting at my wife's vanity table waiting for my nails to dry. I had to sit to pee, my eyebrows were narrow and arched, I was wearing lipstick and I wasn't screaming my lungs out. What was happening to me? How could I be so calm, my wife couldn't be right, I'm not a transvestite, am I? At this point I had two choices. Stay where I was and dwell on what was happening, what my wife and sisters had said about me, and go crazy (ier). Or I could get up and do as instructed, clean the house and do the laundry, show them that I, a man, could function just fine no matter how I was dressed. In essence keep busy enough that I would not have time to consciously think about all that was happening to me.

  

  

  

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